The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E24

Episode Date: September 18, 2016

It's episode 24 of Season 7. On this week's show we have seven tales about the cruel crimes, nefarious neighbors, and terrifying television."The Tall Man of Briarbell, Missouri"** written by C.K. Walker and performed by Kyle Akers & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:03:35)"We Were Soap"** written by Nancy M. Long and performed by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 00:12:10)"An Open Letter to Reality Three"** written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:34:00)"A Taste Worth Savoring"** written by Keith McDuffee and performed by Dan Zappulla & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:50:10)"The Burning House"** written by Kerry H. and performed by David Ault & Nikolle Doolin & Jesse Cornett & Jeff Clement. (Story starts at 01:13:15)"How I Became a Vegetarian"** written by Common Grackle and performed by Corinne Sanders & Addison Peacock & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:27:00)"Fairweather Nightmares"* written by Henry Galley and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Corinne Sanders & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts at 01:41:50)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker Click here to learn more about Nancy M. Long Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee Click here to learn more about Kerry H. Click here to learn more about Henry Galley Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"The Tall Man of Briarbell, Missouri" illustration courtesy of Jörn HeidrathAudio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, this is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment, you do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 7, episode 24, the tall man of Briarville, Missouri. We were sold. An open letter to reality three. A taste worth savouring.

The Burning House. How I became a vegetarian. Fair Weather Nightmares. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have seven tales about cruel crimes, nefarious neighbors, and terrifying television. It's hard to believe that we're almost at the end of our seventh season.

It's certainly been a season. of change and remarkable growth. Our team has certainly grown with new voice actors and our two amazing producers, Phil Mikalski and Jeff Clement. And throughout it all, you, our wonderful listeners, have grown with us. In fact, when I look back to the stats for the first episode of season six, I realize that our audience is now more than two and a half times what it was back then. There's nothing which speaks louder than the simple fact that more and more people are listening and liking what we do. Thanks to all of you for your phenomenal support. So what do the next few weeks hold for us as we prepare for season eight?

Well, next week, on September 25th, the pre-orders for season eight will begin. The following week, October 2nd, will release an episode featuring a classic story from one of our previous season Pass episodes. Then season 8 will launch on October 9th, just in time to kick off an amazing Halloween season. You won't want to miss all the shows and season

pass bonus Halloween episodes this year. And of course, I can't forget to mention next week's season seven finale. I'm proud to announce that we will be featuring the No Sleep podcast production of C.K.

Walker's epic story. Boraska. Featuring a cast of over 20 voice actors, including special guest stars from Uncanny County, Allison Crane and Todd Faulkner. And as horror fans, you're certainly familiar with the horror movie Hush on Netflix. The star and co-writer of that movie, Kate Siegel, joins her co-writer and director Mike Flanagan for the production. This will be our largest and longest production ever, running well over two and a half hours, and it will be available to everyone next Sunday. Will you join us? Well, I know you're ready to join us now as we present our tales for this week's show. In our first tale, we are told a rather short story, but one in which

a town's oft-repeated urban legend is the focus. As we learn from author C.K. Walker, when a group of Young boys claim an encounter with a mysterious man. They strive to get to the bottom of the legend. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Matthew Bradford, and Ellie Hirschman. So look up, look way up if you want to see the tall man of Briar Bell, Missouri. We had all liked Mr. Winscott. He didn't mind when we used the sledding hill on his property, and he always gave out the best Halloween candy in the...

the neighborhood. So when we heard he'd been taken by the tall man, everyone was really bummed out. You wouldn't have heard of tall man, so let me explain. Tall man has been a legend in my town for decades. Those who claim to have seen him say he's over nine feet tall, slight and pale, with an exceedingly polite smile. My dad told me that tall man is a collector. He likes things. Dad says his favorite things to take are sad people, empty buildings, and dreams. I have to admit he's stolen away my dreams more than a few times. When Mr. Winscott hadn't shown up for church on Sunday, nobody thought it was weird. And then when Monday rolled around and he wasn't at work with my dad, people started to whisper.

My parents thought it was odd, but not particularly concerning. But then the rumors started that tall man had gotten him. him. A kid in my class even said that he had seen Tallman in Mr. Winskott's house through a window. I told my parents what Jake had seen, but they only laughed. Tyler and I biked by Mr. Winskott's place every day after school to get to our friend Rory's house. We never stopped in front of Mr. Winskots to try to see Tallman through the windows like Jake had. We never even slowed down. But one day we played too late at Rory's. Since we didn't want to bike home in the dark, we called our parents and asked to sleep over. Tyler was allowed to. I wasn't. I tried really hard not to look

as I biked by Mr. Winskots' cul-de-sac. I almost made it, but my curiosity forced a backwards glance at the house. The lights were all on, and my eyes were drawn to the face in the window immediately. I saw tall man looking back at me. I choked in a panicked breath, and my foot missed the pedal as I tried to speed away on my bike. I stumbled for only a second, my eyes never leaving the face in the window before I peddled home as fast as I could. The next morning at school I told Rory and Tyler about Tallman. They didn't believe me, of course. They hadn't believed Jake either. I knew I had to show them, or they would think I was a liar. We waited until dark, and then biked to Mr. Winskott's cul-de-sac. Tallman was there, as I told him he'd be, watching us from the window above the front door.

It was such a tall front door that I thought tall man must be ten feet high to see out of the window above it. He was almost smiling, but his expression betrayed a certain displeasure. Tyler fell off his bike. As soon as we cleared the cul-de-sac, we all began talking over each other in a flustered panic. I can't believe we saw a tall man. Did you see the look on his face? We have to tell the cops! We went back the next morning with more friends, but Tallman was gone.

We went back the next day but again could see no one behind the window. We began to wonder if Tallman only came out at night. A few nights later as we sat in Rory's basement waiting for pizza to arrive, we decided to sneak out and see if our theory was true. We quietly rolled our bikes down the driveway and into the street, and we took off from Mr. Winscott's house, torn between hoping Tallman was there and praying that he wasn't. We saw him as soon as we biked into the cul-de-sac.

He was still standing there after all. And this time, Tallman was outright frowning. He's mad. He wants us to stay away. Tyler snapped a picture. I don't get why he only comes out at night. Don't. Stop taking pictures. You'll make him matter. Maybe he watches us in the daytime, too.

Maybe we can only see him at night because that's when the porch lights come on and shine right into the window. It was a chilling thought. We decided to test Rory's theory the following Saturday, emboldened by the assumption that tall man could only watch us, but never come out. As soon as the sun came up that morning, we biked to Mr. Wilskatz. We had to get close, almost all the way to the beginning of his driveway, but Tyler swore he saw Tallman still standing in the window. I made hand binoculars and squinted at the window for a few more minutes.

Let's go! Tyler hopped back on his bike and peddled off. We caught up to him a few blocks later. What the hell was that? It was Tallman was there, but he looked different this time. Like how? I don't know. He looked angry or just wrong somehow.

It was a few days before we could convince Tyler to go back to Tall Man's house. And even then he insisted on taking his teenage brother Matt with us. Matt wasn't impressed with our stories at all. He didn't believe us, but he came anyway for Tyler's sake. As soon as we got close enough to see Tallman in the window above the door, Matt got off his bike. He stared and squinted and stared some more. He got closer, closer than we had ever dared to go at night. We followed nervously behind him.

Matt walked up the driveway and then down the stone path to the front porch. We dared not follow that far. Then Matt went up the porch stairs, right up to the door. Fuck! Then a few more four-letter words. and suddenly Matt was running down the front porch, down the path, down the driveway, and out into the street where we waited. What is it?

There is no tall man. Call the cops. Now. And he was right. It wasn't tall man after all. We stayed long enough to watch the police break down the door and cut the rotting corpse of Mr. Winscott from the ceiling, where he had hung himself from a lamp fixture in his foyer. The body had decayed as if it were melting,

in the days that we had watched it from the road. Mr. Winscott had written no note and made no goodbyes, leaving behind only the sad imprint of a divorced, middle-aged man, suffering a sad, well-hidden depression. It was weeks before the town lost interest in the tragic suicide, and months before kids stopped asking us to describe the body and all of its gory detail. Eventually, even Tyler and Rory stopped talking about it.

Everyone had moved on. Everyone except me. See, there was one detail that always bothered me. One thing I never told Roy or Tyler. It was about the first time I'd seen tall man, the time I'd been alone. The thing was I'd seen Mr. Winscott that night. He'd been sitting alone in his kitchen eating dinner. But I'd seen something else too.

In the upstairs bedroom window, there had been an impossibly tall, impossibly pale man staring back at me. And he'd been politely smiling. local farmers market, you're likely to find people selling products which they have lovingly crafted by hand. In this tale from author Nancy M. Long, we meet a notorious ladiesman whose family makes a good living selling their handmade soap. He makes sure they have the special ingredients which makes them so popular. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Nicole Doolan, and Addison Peacock.

So let's meet the man who says of his family, we were soap. I guess I don't think about it that much. I suppose I would consider myself a bad man, but I don't think that's such a bad title. Chance Tallard, Predator. I am what I am. I'm like any shark in the ocean or wolf on land. I hunt. It's my function.

And in that capacity, I give back to the community in ways they do not fully appreciate. It's the classic. They don't want to know how the steak is made. They just want it in front of them, perfectly spiced, medium rare. A quick controversy over whether to love or to loathe the A1 sauce. I am the butcher. I do what you all don't want to. Not because I think there's a great need in the world, but because I like it.

I love what I do. It's in my blood. A taste handed down to me by my father and to him by his father. My father is Richard Dickie Taller. He runs the family business. They farm pigs and sheep out in the Kings Valley countryside. I am separate from the farming branch, for now, at least. During summer, I help at the farmer's market booth.

We sell handmade soaps, skeins of hand-spun sheep's wool, cuts of pork and homemade sausages. My mother, Celeste, spins and dyes the wool while my dad makes the sausage. Oh, maybe you've guessed my contribution. I provide the secret ingredient. A batch is needed, sprinkled in like salt. A drizzle of the fat is added to the soap recipe and a portion of powdered bone to give it that nice exfoliating lather, a small portion of the best meat to the sausage, a handful of

hair added to the wool roving before it spun. We consider it a major part of our success. It's everything better. We have a reputation for creating long-lasting repeat customers on the first try. They smell our sausages on one end of the farmer's. market and can't stop themselves from being dragged by the pull of it. My parents stand together at the booth selling and talking with all their regulars. They never sit down. Every Saturday is a reunion of people, many of whom I've known all my life as loyal, voracious customers. My mom goes around the table and hugs a good number of them.

I've always thought my mother was beautiful. She has long, light brown hair. She wears it braided at home and when she's working on the farm, but at the market she lets it down and it falls in waves. She props her glasses on the top of her head like a headband, keeping hair out of her face, only flipping them down to quickly check receipts that she'd written out or large written orders.

Jim, the hot dog guy, was a regular. He had a hot dog cart that he brought out every summer. He worked the Saturday market, too, but would come over to make small talk and put in orders. Hey, chancy, how's it hanging? He reached out to shake my hand, but would pull me out of my seat and hug me across the table. He had a thick Bronx accent and an exuberant style that put him out of my hand. of place in quiet Corvallis. He was a long-standing family friend, a person who could always be relied on for discretion. He always kissed my mom on the cheek. When she was around, he was the

epitome of gentlemanly behavior. He cleaned up his language, he pulled out her chair, and he always joked about how he was waiting patiently for her to get tired of my dad. They'd all laugh. Though, Jim always stopped laughing first. My mom wasn't born into this. My dad just got lucky. I think it has to be true that there are people out there meant for certain other people. Before my dad took over the business from his father, he did my job. Our hunting lure is a compliment or a hand through their hair. It's how they'd met. She'd been on the menu.

One night he invited her up the hill to watch the meteor shower. But once up there, he began to strangle her. She pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the shoulder, chastised him, and then drove him to the hospital where they blamed all the injuries on a drifter who ran off. Whenever he told this story, he always rubbed him. His scar through his shirt, smiling like a dopey-eyed teenager. My parents' story notwithstanding, picking up women is a great way to become jaded with love. You realize how cheap it is, how easily manufactured. And they all crave it like the air they breathe and are willing to sell anything for it.

Lust aside, they sell a kind of unconditional acceptance in exchange for a caress of the cheek or a long stare into their eyes. Say they're beautiful, and that caress gets greenlit to go anywhere. That marketable blindness is also what makes my job so simple. If you don't know what you're smelling, you think you're at. attracted for other reasons. You'll say it's their eyes, their body, or hair. I've got news for you. They're not as funny as you think they are, or as kind. It carries over in the meat. It's that smell that lures you to the person as well as the sausage. People who use our soap bathe in that subtle feeling of falling in love.

That can be more powerful than the will to survive. It's a similar feeling to the one I had. Not the first time I saw her, but maybe the second or third time. She's called Rory, short for Aurora. She was a catch and release, though I hadn't meant her to be. I got as far as bringing her to my apartment. The first time I saw her in the bar, I sat next to her as she was getting a drink. I said something cheesy like, hey, I think you're really pretty.

She smiled, though not as wide as they usually do. But she kept talking to me. I'm definitely not a bad-looking guy, which... helps. She fell asleep watching movies on my chest. I inhaled her as she slept, and in the morning I let her leave. There was something different about this one. The other girls, and I mean a long list of others, would look at me. Rory was actually seeing me. We recognize. We recognize. iced each other. I wondered if this was what acceptance felt like when it wasn't blind. I didn't call her after that. I avoided her at the bar, but we were both regulars at the same

pool shark dive. I would catch her glancing at me when I tried to dart a look at her. She was ever surrounded by the non-stop chatter of her girlfriends, but she, didn't chatter. She didn't even move in the same way. I believe she was hiding in plain sight. Fast forward a few weeks. I had gotten a request earlier that day to bring in a catch. So, diligent worker that I am, I went hunting. I saw a new girl sitting at the bar, a sparkling tiara on her blonde head and a neon deadly. cocktail in her hand. It was early, but she was already throwing her hands up,

energetically whooping at everything the bartender said. She was new. She was naive. She would not be remembered. The trick to sustainability was to stay away from anyone with clear established ties or roots in the community. This was a college town. People came and went,

regularly. Never take a familiar face. College students were as good as weekend visitors. There were always reasons that they might not be found. They might have run away with a boyfriend, gone on vacation, drowned, suicide in the woods, body yet to be discovered. It was a fragile group without a face. As I was leaving with her, I took a glance at Rory's table. She was sipping her drink through a straw looking at me. No quick look away, no apologetic smirk. She was looking right at me, just deliberately staring. She'd seen me leave with other girls before,

wondering, for he couldn't have been more different than my new 21-year-old friend, Angie. Rory's long dark hair was straight, and ever pushed back behind her ears. Her earrings were talons dangling down to match her black leather choker. She was also a college kid, but the window where she would be easily removed was very fast closing. Even if that's what I wanted, it was too risky now. Angie seemed to be almost an exact opposite to her, including in risk. New freshman first night at the...

bar. It had taken less than ten minutes to convince Angie to come with me. I used a systematic approach. I'd sit down, compliment them, touch them, then come on, I'd say, take a chance. I'd hold out my hand and smirk. It worked on my new blonde as well as it had worked on all the others I'd used it on. It worked because it was cheesy. It worked because it was me. I considered myself reasonably good-looking, certainly bigger than the competition. But what I had that they didn't was the outright arrogance that comes from knowing that I can take what I need when I want it. It was about a week after that night that Rory sat next to me at the bar and spoke.

Buy me a drink. The question mark was put there to be polite. We'd never talked about that first night, and we didn't talk about it now. This was a new day, and she was overtly toying with me. I remembered her smell. I let it lure me. to come to my apartment with me, omitting my regular cheesy lines and going instead with pure, straightforwardness. She took my hand and we left the light. She was exaggerating her inebriation.

She was energized. Her eyes were lit up, but not looking at me the way they had before. She was caressing my arms, tracing the cut of the muscles. She brought my arm up and wrapped my hand around the back of her head. She pressed the fingers down until I held them there. We stood locked together in the front hallway of my apartment until I said something stupid. I didn't mean to say it. It just fell out of me. It hung in the air.

It might not sound like much, but I really meant it. This time, I felt exposed. I thought you understood. Her left hand was tracing down the side of my face to the edge of my jaw. Understood what? She was my sister. I hadn't been paying attention. She pulled a knife out of her bag with her free hand.

She cocked back and stabbed down. I moved just in time for the blade to miss my chest and go straight through the muscle in my shoulder. She pulled it out to try again, and I caught her wrists. Flashes went through my mind of her stare as I'd left the bar the night I'd taken Angie. I was trying to understand. I pinned her to the floor. She wouldn't let go of the knife. You...

You let me leave with her. I was holding both of her wrists across her chest, squeezing until she dropped the knife and let out a yelp. Not my favorite sister. She kicked out, hitting me in the groin. I let her go and curled in on myself. I didn't think that was going to be the last time I saw her. She grabbed the knife. from the floor and went for my chest.

It happened so fast. I was still recovering from the flash bomb of pain. Instinct took over when I caught her hands, and I twisted them around and thrust the knife into her chest. Over before I realized what I'd done. Her eyes were back to staring at me as she went to the floor. I caught her and helped ease her down. It didn't take long before there was nothing behind that stare.

I stopped feeling the pain in my groin and my shoulder. My focus was locked onto her. I slapped her face gently a couple of times back and forth. I looked around like I'd be able to find a doctor waiting on the bed. I took a shower, washing. our blood off. I put a couple butterfly stitches on my shoulder. I barely registered that it was me in the mirror.

I'd missed something that night. I hadn't been paying close enough attention. I hadn't been paying enough attention to Rory. I called my parents, and they came and got her. I asked that a stronger soap be made. Just for me. I didn't want her sold over laughs at the booth. I spent the next couple of months trying not to think about what it happened.

I went to the bar, but only to watch. Winter was coming, and there wasn't much demand anyway. People seal themselves off when the weather gets colder. As luck goes, it was a good time to feel paralyzed. Then one morning I got a knock on my... There was my mom with the package of soaps. We haven't seen you in a while. It came out more as a question.

Anyway, Jim says he has some work for you. When you're ready, give him a call. There was an extra squeeze in her hug before she left me alone in my apartment with the box. As soon as I sliced open the tape seal, I could smell her. seeping out of the package. She stared up at me through the cardboard. Normally, my mom used the fine powdered bone as an exfoliant when making the soap. For this one, I had requested a larger, coarse grind.

I could see them in the pale cream-colored soap, like little spires of white the size of coarse rock salt. In the shower, I raked the soap across my chest like sharp fingernails. I wanted to force her scent into my skin. I could practically see her in the shower with me. Her dark eyes staring back at me, framed by her wet, dark hair, sticking to the sides of her face. That day was the first day.

that I'd ever felt truly intoxicated. That night was the first time I'd ever felt real pain. Laying in bed, I reached up to touch the scar on my shoulder. I could still feel the itch underneath. I could still smell her on my skin. When all the synapses, chemical, and electrical connections, in the human brain don't quite work well enough, the perception of reality becomes rather unstable. Just ask author C. M. Scandrith. In this tale, she describes a young woman whose grasp on reality

is quite fluid, and it allows her to draw some unsettling conclusions. Performing this tale is Erica Sanderson. So listen well to the admonition of this person who pens, an open letter to Reality 3. Everything was perfect. My parents had a happy, stable marriage, and I was planned almost down to the day of my arrival. My mother wanted to have her baby in June, so that the joys of birthdays and Christmas

would be spread evenly through the year. She was always thinking about what would be best for me. I was enrolled in a preschool program and knew how to read by the age of first, I picked up The Hobbit at six, and by the time I was seven, I was in advanced reading classes. The teachers loved me. I was polite, pretty, and punctual. I was simply a joy to teach, absorbing information like a sponge, and I never caused any trouble. Even the other girls liked me, asking how I got such beautiful braids in my hair and where my mother got my dresses.

The boys didn't particularly warm to me, but those boys didn't particularly warm to me, but those years of school are always fraught with meaningless gender politics, so it never bothered me. By the time I was 12, I'd been put up a year due to being a gifted student, and my parents bought me a black Labrador puppy for making them so proud. I unimaginatively named him Suti, and I loved him so fiercely it made my heart hurt. Then everything changed. My 13th birthday had just been and gone, so it was late June. I recall that. that the walk home from school seemed off somehow. But I often read books as I walked,

so the exact details eluded me. Inside our house, everything seemed normal, regular. My mother was preparing dinner, and dad was in the living room, reading a newspaper with the TV on in the background. Where's soots? I dumped my school bag on the floor and rummaged in it for my empty lunchbox.

Who, darling? I slid the green plastic lunchbox onto the bench with the rest of the washing up. Sooty, where is he? My mother bore's chopping carrots and gave me a confused smile. Who's that then? A new friend you've invented. Mother? Can you please be serious?

Then, with a lurching sensation in my stomach, I realized there was no dog bowl on the kitchen floor. The polished wood boards of the hallway showed none of the familiar scuff marks from his claws and no walking leash hung on the key rack beside the front door. It had to be some kind of practical joke, some twisted trick of dads to poke fun at me. But there wasn't a single black hair on my pillowcase,

nor even a stray muddy footprint outside. Every trace of sooty, my beloved companion and best friend, was gone. Child psychologist was a very kind man. He smelled of pipe smoke and had a little white beard like the Kentucky Fried Chicken Man. In my head I called him the Colonel. He explained that I must have imagined getting a dog, that sometimes puberty does strange things to young girls and makes their brains misfire.

He listened patiently when I explained that I had clear memories of my dog, and I even pulled down my sock to show the scar where he'd accidentally scratched my leg with his puppy claws. But the scar was gone. Though it was difficult for me to accept, Eventually I came around to his way of thinking. I recalled sobbing my guts out in his tobacco-scented office while he patted me on the back, the fat tears rolling down my cheeks until the salt burned my skin.

My best friend had never existed. Souti was a figment, conjured up by my hormone-addled brain. My parents offered to buy me a black Labrador for Christmas, if I was good, but I told them I didn't want a new dog. I just wanted Suti back. Three months later, I traped through the front door, sodden with rain, and was nearly bowled over by the compact body of an excited black Labrador. You bought me a dog!

I squealed, delighted despite myself. My mother laughed, quickly, dismissively as though I'd made a joke. Something was wrong. Sitting on the floor of the kitchen was a pair of dog bowls, one for water, one for food. There were scuff marks around them, and a greedy dog rushing to get his dinner. I was scratched and faded, and they looked old.

Afraid, chewed-up dog lead hung beside the door, and when I ran down to my bedroom, Suti at my heels, I found black dog hair everywhere. Suttie's happy black tail thumped me as I hugged him to my chest, and he licked excitedly around my neck. But I knew that he didn't exist. He couldn't exist. This was just my imagination.

Weeping in the kitchen, the worried, adolescent, dog circling my legs, I confessed to my parents that I was having delusions again, and that I needed to go back to the colonel, Dr Pritchard. Exchanging confused glances, they asked me who Dr. Pritchard was and why I was so adamant that Souti was imaginary. I broke down in hiccuping tears then, my mind not able to cope with the situation. It got worse from there. Some days Souti was there, some days he wasn't. The scar on my leg would appear, then disappear. Those two things became markers for my madness.

When Suti didn't exist, when my skin was unmarked, I saw the kernel. When Suti did exist, I would see a lady who wore too much makeup, a counsellor named Mrs. Scanlan. I didn't like her very much. She seemed to disapprove of me, and I got the impression she thought all of my issues were related to being spoiled. Coming home from a session with her, I threw my bag down as I came through the front door, then opened the fridge to get a drink of juice.

As I closed the door, I saw the strange man and woman in the kitchen. It paused, clearly right in the middle of preparing dinner, and were staring at me in shock. The juice cut in halfway to my mouth, I stared back and asked, Why are you in our kitchen? We were going to ask you the same thing. The couple called the police to help. find my family. I insisted that I was at the right house, but they assured me that they had lived there for four years. When the constable turned up, he put me in the back of his car and

drove me several blocks over, where he dropped me off at a strange, shabby house from which my parents emerged. None of this made any sense. Sometimes we lived in a two-story house, sometimes in a hovel. Sometimes Suti was there, but sometimes he was called Blackie. I could no longer rely on reality to feed me the correct information. Everything seemed to be in flux. It was like I was constantly slipping between different worlds, different realities. It quickly became too much. It was happening too fast. I couldn't keep any threads of continuity intact and it was dragging my already fragile mind towards the brink. I begged my parents to institutionalized me, to get me serious help. To my overwhelming relief? They agreed. Life in the nut house was dulled by drugs, strong ones. Details still change

constantly, but on heavy tranquilizers, that didn't mean so much. The changes weren't so threatening. The walls of my room were pink in one reality and green in another, but it didn't really matter. I saw an array of therapists, each claiming to be the sole doctor in charge of my care. Sometimes my parents visited with or without a black Labrador. Sometimes my father said my mother had died in an accident. Sometimes she was perfectly alive. My world was a constant whirl of chaos, shifting colours, names, faces and corridors. The only constant, the only point of reference I still had, was the little scar on my right leg.

I knew that when it was present, I had a dog named Suti, my parents were both alive and my hospital room was pale blue. But it wasn't enough. I lived like a zombie, drooling on myself, wetting my bed and running into walls until my shoulders were mottled with bruises. When my family stopped visiting completely, that was the final straw. Breaking the observation window in the isolation room had been very difficult. The glass was tough and thick, but it was worth the shattered bones in my right hand. The precious sharp-edged chunks sliced the fingertips of my good hand as I prized them out of the rubber frame, but I didn't care. None of that mattered.

The cuts drawn along my wrists were less painful than they were borderline blissful. The pain signaled an end, an exit from this carousel of insanity. I had fifteen minutes before the next check. That should be just enough. I felt cold. I couldn't keep my head up. anymore. My consciousness faded to a black and white pinpoint. I felt the world tunneling, compressing. Then I was abruptly back in my bed, in the green room, not a mark on my body. Rolling over, I cried into my plastic pillow. It seemed I wasn't even allowed the release of death. But something had changed, because a few days later, I awoke in the pink room, my aching wrists heavily bandaged.

And once the wounds had healed, the livid scars always told me which reality I was in, which gave me an idea. It took me four years to escape the institution. But each reality, I cut a different number of scars into my wrists. When I walked out of the doors of the hospital for the last time, I was in Reality 6, where my parents had divorced from the stress of my mental illness, and I had a half-brother. Memory and recall ruled my life now, as well as running my fingers over my wrist to count the scars.

I'd memorized the essential details of 13 realities, all different from one another in vital ways. I wouldn't say I was living. I certainly wasn't thriving, but I was at least surviving. This was on the borderline of tolerable. I could exist like this indefinitely. Or at least I thought I could. So when I died, it caught me completely by surprise. I'd been cycling home.

A car hit a truck, which hit my bike, and pulverized my legs against the side of a parked minivan. The pain was so great that I don't think my brain could properly register it. I just felt a numbness, and then a nagging sense of panic. In the back of the ambulance, I began to tunnel out again. The world lost all colour, then began to compress. But it was different this time. I moved out of the tunnel

and seemed to be staring down from a dozen different perspectives into a universe that was rushing in on itself. I could see streets crunching together, people screaming in abject terror as reality folded and folded again, like some kind of apocalyptic origami that was compressing everything. And then World Nine was gone. Forever. I picked the worst of the remaining 12 realities, then gassed myself in the backseat of a tiny

Honda hatchback. I wouldn't miss that world. In it, Russia had become a new superpower, and America was tearing itself apart in a second civil war. Homosexuals and the mentally ill were being actively lynched in first world countries, and global warming had seen several island nations in the Pacific ravaged by devastating hurricanes. I almost enjoyed watching that reality in on itself. People, cars, houses, mountains and oceans, all mangled together into an ever-shinking, shrieking ball until all life was crushed out of existence. When I returned to reality, this time into World Four, I knew exactly what I had to do. The only way I can live a normal life is to destroy all the realities but one, by killing myself in 12 realities and murdering

84 billion people, I can finally find peace. So I have made a list. Each remaining world has been given a score based on the quality of life there. It was a tough choice between the top two contenders, but I finally reached a decision. And I'm sorry to say that this world, your world, reality number three, it didn't make the cut. While you've made some progress, you're still a reality full of grasping selfish, conceited pricks. Your narcissism and self-obsession is moderately tempered by a handful of human rights successes, but you continue to kill each other in numerous wars and pour vastly more money into oppressing your fellow human beings than you do into helping them.

You didn't even make the top five. But you do have some time. I have a couple of worlds worse than yours to crush out of existence, so take the remaining time to reflect on all the times you've failed to speak up for others, all the pollution you've poured into oceans and landfills, and all the petitions and causes that you didn't think were worth five minutes away from fucking candy crush or Twitter. I won't miss you, Reality 3. The older we get, the easier it is for the mind to ponder the certainty of our demise.

In this tale from author Keith McDuffie, we meet a man who can't help but share his philosophy of death with strangers. Very strange strangers indeed. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Erica Sanderson. So if it turns out your next meal is your last, make sure it's a taste worth savoring. In between the mozzarella sticks and the second course, I'm thinking about dying. I don't think of anyone or anything in particular, and I most especially am not thinking about myself. I happen to like life most of the time, and as far as I know, I'm not proceeding down that path at an accelerated rate for any particular reason. It's the process itself, I consider.

Dying. Emphasis on the ing. Quick or not, the road to death is always a process. In the absence of immortality, every living thing begins the process of dying from the moment of creation, with each following moment one step closer to crossing the threshold of death's door. Some spend their entire short lives doing anything to stave it off. Some encourage it, whether meaning to or not. But in the end, until the end, it's always coming. There's no choice.

It's a process ending with only one result. The taste of fried cheese and marinerra lingers and somehow dying comes to mind. Again, not my dying and not of anyone in particular. Not yet, at least. Minutes tick by, and we sit and wait for the arrival of the guest of honor and of new hot plates to our table of five. The conversation within the circle is exclusive of me and all but inspired. and it's always about work.

Living and dying is a macabre balancing act where one task takes a fair amount of effort to achieve, and the other none at all. And despite that, they both come to a simultaneous end. Who thinks about that? At dinner time, no less. I suppose I do. I suppose it's because of present company.

I suppose it could also be because of her. I spotted the old woman about the time our menus were whisked away. And as I said, the gum flapping in the general vicinity was as uninviting as it often tends to be. With my reading material gone and with nothing in arms reached to keep my eyes entertained, my attention is forcibly diverted. And there she is. Mid to late 70s, I'd say. Probably her name is something like Agnes or Edith.

Helen, maybe. or Alice. Well-dressed, but nothing at all fancy. The sort of someone you'd likely see gladly kneeling in prayer within a church pew or shuffling into a bingo hall like it's the best part of her day. Or, I suppose, dining alone in a place like this. Simple orthopedic shoes, stark white hair drawn up tightly into a typical bun. She's been here many times before, probably every Sunday. and probably the same meal. A nice piece of fish because it's easy on the tummy. Maybe start out with a small salad or a spicy minestrone

with a side of saltines if she's feeling frisky. Finish off the evening with a nice hot cup, a only herbal or else she'd never get to sleep after the local news. To highlight that she is indeed alone, in the chair across from her table for two, sits her fat, gray handbag, a monstrosity befitting a long trailhiker with a knitted shawl draped along the seat back.

And every night she dines alone. She chooses to sit in what's likely the same seat she sinks her skirted ass into every week rather than hole up in her tiny kitchen back home. Because where else will she get that nice piece of fish? With rigid posture, she awaits that tea or small indulgence of cake, glancing around at nothing in particular and with a tease of a smile.

And I wonder if this woman is thinking of dying, that the end of the ing is closer at hand for her than for a good deal of the rest of the patrons in this restaurant. Is every Sunday still just one more spent dying? Still one more spent eating in the same goddamn restaurant, eating the same goddamn meal alone. And please, God or death or whomever I'm supposed to be begging to, just bring me to the end of this journey now so I can cease wondering day in and day

out when it will stop. And who, if anyone, would answer? If not God, but death himself, were to take a seat at that table for two, if he were to tell her that he was there to dine on mozzarella sticks and to end her part of the process of living and dying and of dining alone, what of that smile? Like some inmate on death row, her timer at once becomes set and known. But unlike the guilty charged, she hasn't the choice of a final meal at that point. It's done and gone. No medium rare steak.

No hamburger and fries. Just that fucking piece of goddamn fish. I remain oblivious to the dialogue carrying on in the immediate vicinity. and find myself considering ungodly mischief. Ungodly is the right word for it. See, this is unlike me. I'm generally one to keep to myself, but even more than the concept of dying,

this woman fascinates me. It defies most explanation, other than my feeling that the very impatience I face to be distracting and painful. If I were to become death, what would she do? What would she say? I'd only know if I found out for myself.

The paper napkin on my lap falls to the floor by my backpack as I get to my feet. The others pay me no mind and likely assume I'm off to hit the head. My stomach lurches with violent butterflies. My legs are jelly. And still my feet find their way between tables of patrons along a seemingly endless 20 feet of cheap patterned carpet. it. And when I stop, I'm standing behind the purse-filled chair. She looks up and says nothing. Her look is unchanged. May I sit? I'm surprised at my own tone of calm and confidence, but I make no show of it. She again says nothing and gestures an open hand to the chair,

an invitation. Rather than carry a look of worry regarding this strange young man asking for a seat at her table, her slight smile grows. I place the purse on the floor beside the chair and have a seat. Uh, thank you. She nods. I glance over at the table I'd left and at the others around me. Those who aren't eating are chatting or busy with their eyes glued to a phone. No one is paying us any mind.

All seats remain full. What can I do for you? Her total lack of concern is. is disquieting, and I resist the urge to stammer. Instead, I straighten, then leaning closely, fixed on her blue eyes beyond thick-framed glasses. It's okay. For a moment, she remains unmoved.

Twice her eyes blink. She leans back into her chair as though exhausted, cocking her head to one side to consider me. But that smile, it never fades. She appears amused. Okay. Yes. Okay for what?

I relax and match her position. I'm not sure how the words leave me, but I say them just the same. To let go. It's okay. It's time. Her lips purse and her eyes grow wide. I expect then that she'll call for help or at the very least storm away with a fair amount of urgency. I began to consider my own escape plan, not caring for a moment what my dinner

mates might think of my hasty retreat. But the scream never comes. She never leaves her seat. She raises a hand to cover her mouth. Tears begin to flow, though she doesn't cry. From beneath her hand, she snickers. My performance of appearing dumbfounded is second-rate at best. This isn't a reaction I had considered at all, least of all from her.

What? What's so funny? The woman does a worse job of suppressing her laughter as she attempts to speak. You. So you're a death now, is it? Come to take me away from it all now, are you? I shoot looks around. I'm relieved to find no one interested in us, despite the woman's raised voice.

Irregardless, I wonder if I should cut my losses then. I'm unsure I can recover. I'm unsure of why I'm even there. The woman dabs at wet eyes with her napkin as she catches her breath. You do think about dying, don't you? She laughs again, and this time with a distinct fervor and zest. Think about dying? You ask if I think about dying.

Me. Yes, everyone's dying. We all are. Don't you think about dying? Though the words spill out, I'm unsure why I bother to continue the charade. She removes her glasses and wipes again at her eyes, letting her laughter dissipate. And when she speaks next, she is no longer amused. First of all, thank you so much for that bit of humor.

I don't believe I've laughed like that in, oh, God's age, I tell you. But to answer your question, yes, Edward, I think about dying all the time. The butterflies I'd felt before are now a lot of. the size of birds. Though the pull to stand and run is fierce, my body cannot seem to comply. I'm induced of a high that is neither euphoria nor calming, but of pure perplexity. How do you know my name? I think you know why. It's what led you over here after all. What led me was in patience and boredom. What led me was this woman who intrigued me in a most unusual way. What led me was the thought of dying and all living things progressing to an

eventual end. That's right. She turns to look at the table from which I'd come and my eyes follow. All five seats are occupied, all five, including my own. Seated in it with head rested upon folded arms on the table is a mid-20s man with an unkempt head of hair and an even more unkempt beard who appears to have succumbed to the premature pull of sleep. Only, this is not sleep, and this is not some man. It's me. Somehow I'm looking at me, and yet I don't feel quite so surprised. The old woman's tone shifts to sincere pity.

I'm sorry, son, but it looks like they haven't quite noticed yet. The me seated at the other table remains still with closed eyes, mouth agape and face glistening with a fine layer of sweat. The so-called colleagues that circle me carry on with their mundane conversation in a murmur I can't quite understand from here. They remain either oblivious to my situation or selectively ignorant and apathetic. I again find myself unsurprised. I don't... I don't expect you to understand. It's a lot to take in, I know. How did it happen? I slumped back into my chair and facing her.

Her eyes study me as she first seems unsure of how to answer. Can't be a heart attack, I think. I'm not in that bad a shape. I must have choked. Death by fried fucking cheese and in this god-forsaken dive with this loud red-grey patterned carpeting and its smoke-stained floor-de-lea wallpaper that seen decades of greasy kitchen fumes

and smoking section dining. I am a dead spoke in a five-person wheel. At least the tale of my passing and their myths will give them conversation material worthy of paying attention to. The pity I won't be around to partake. How did it happen? You walked over here and sat down. I look at her quite unconvinced and unsure. I got up?

Mm-hmm. Can't say it happens very often, but it's what you did. You just got up? She makes a lifting motion with her hands as she says this, as though conjuring something from the table. And here you are. I know you say I shouldn't understand, but this makes no sense.

You mean that just because I got up and came over here, now I'm dead? I'm afraid that's how it works. Not quite sure why there is one of the likes of you every once in a great while. One who thinks, hey, look at her, or look at him. I'll go have me a chat because she looks interesting. Or in your case, that I look like someone to fuss about with.

But I saw you. I can see you. Can't others see you and come talk to you? She shakes her head. Like I said, it happens once in a great while. Great while. I'm quite sure how it happens. I tried changing my appearance to be much.

less attractive than I've been in the past, but it seems this. She spreads her arms as though to present herself. Was too tempting a target for the likes of you, Edward? Well, okay, if no one can see you, then why look like a normal person at all? I mean, you're death after all, right? Death is supposed to be scary looking in a dark cloak or something. At that, she laughs. Oh, and I assume my...

have a sigh as well. And how would you have reacted if I'd have just been sitting over here looking like that? No doubt you'd tell your friends and they'd just as well think to have you committed, and rightly so. Besides, what kind of thing would that be to those who'd see me only once they'd passed? Why, they'd be scared to death if they weren't dead already. Much better to greet them as a beautiful woman, or a half. handsome young man, kindly old lady. She pulls her purse up onto the table and removes a compact from it.

She applies a dark pink rouge to her cheeks as she examines herself in its tiny mirror. I know you're confused, Edward. Lord knows I am as well. I don't quite know what to make of people like you, and, well, neither does he if you can believe that. So that's it then? So now I'm just dead. She makes a finishing dab at her nose and stashes the compact back away. Well, that's up to you, Edward. Up to me? How can me going from dead to not dead be up to me?

What's done is done, right? You see, Edward, I'm not quite ready for you yet. Actually, it's more that I'm not ready to be done with you yet. Done with me? What the hell is that supposed to me? She cocks her head to one side And looks at me as though she's about to explain The cruel realities of the world

To an oblivious grandchild Have you ever had something so good That you simply wished it would never end A delicious piece of candy as a child A girl perhaps A nice piece of fish As you put it I'm quick to comprehend her analogy

And cringe at the thought You're using me. You've been using me. Using? More like savoring. You need to do nothing more than just be who you are. Savoring? You make it sound like I'm a piece of meat, like I'm food. Well, that's precisely what you are to me, Ed Wood. I don't eat, per se. You're not food so much to me as you are as sustenance, as all the dead are. as all the dying, as you know, become.

Just ten minutes ago you thought of dying and how every living thing undergoes the process from the moment of creation. Right, you are. Right, you are. The woman's eyes dart about, as though to ensure prying ears won't spy upon what juicy secrets she's about to spill. At birth comes the first bite, you see.

Just a tiny one, just enough for taste. I suppose you could say it's quite like the first stage of digestion, actually. I must say at times it's a bit too good to take from the start, and it's all over with right quick. Just can't help myself, I'm afraid. And then there are the usual ones, the ones that will do just fine as they are. In due time, they're finished off as well. There are some I just want to hold on to a little longer. Their flavor is too hard.

Good. Worth savoring, you see. She sits back into her chair. With a pleased look, she continues. And that's you. Your dying is delicious, Edward. To that, I'm unsure of whether to feel offended or relieved. I am no doubt disgusted. Then why are you here?

If I'm not ready, if you're not ready for me, then why am I here? Why are you taking me now? She pouts with disappointment. Isn't it obvious? I'm not here for you, Edward. Who then? Her lips pout further.

Her frown grows comically long. I'm not sure why I asked. I turned to my table again where my slumped body remains still. Those at the table have their attention elsewhere to the pair just entering the restaurant. One way or another, Edward. my dinner is about to be served. If you want to go, you'd best be doing so now.

Otherwise, I've got quite the feast ahead of me, don't I? I'm on my feet before she finishes her words. As I approach my chair and prepare to sit, I glanced back. The old woman I'd earlier sought to cause trouble upon, sat just as she had the first time I'd noticed her, the tease of a smile still brandishing her wrinkled, powdered face. I feel an elbow jab into my ribs. I sit bolt upright, a line of spittle trailing from my chin.

Have a good nap, sleeping beauty? I heard Mark from my right. Tick-talk, targets arrived. You're on, Eddie. As though I'd just woken up, it takes me a moment to get my bearings. I wipe my face with the edge of the tablecloth and look around the table. Conversation has ceased. All eyes are upon me.

My eyes are upon them On the families at the other tables On her I'm unsettled This is not me Just like last time Felix is across the table Sensing my change of disposition

Just like every other time man We'll be in the car The group stands They pull several 20s from their wallets And throw them onto the table Before he leaves with the others Mark puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. Collateral damage is part of the job.

Do this, and let's go home. It's for the good of the country. I nod as he exits with the others. I reach under the table into the backpack and reach in through the unzipped pocket. And I toggle the switch. An unsteady feet I rise and start for the door. The pair of agents who had entered earlier are seated at the counter, reading menus.

They'll be 10 feet from the blast, but it won't matter. This smoky decor, breaded cheese, and fish fillets won't matter. Before the door shuts behind me, the old woman calls out. I know most consider people like you

bad and foul, even disgusting and vile. Not me, Edward. Certainly not me. It includes our nocturnal presentation. Now it's time to drift off into your own nightmares. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program.

25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week. We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind you. This audio production is Copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.